Potential overflows and wastes, just spilling on the floor.
There is a bright light shimmering, awake inside my core.
Every night a revelation, the genius spins awake!
Every morn a resignation, under the noose I quake.
Oscillation my favorite game, fantasy is how I sleep.
The wizard produces potions for the people as he weeps.
Makes a riddle for the dragon, to help him escape the knight.
Forgives himself a little, can\'t afford to make it right.
Oscillation is my curse you see, soaked is how I wake.
Covered in sweat, or blood and piss, whatever it will take.
The scholar and all his apps, inventions, art and lore is gone.
A husk is all that\'s left of him, an echo mocks his song.
Just like all those silly deity\'s, a thousand miles of reach,
Light that can burn cities to ash, and such poetic speech,
Filled with holy golden ghosts - The hand! It moves alive!
I never actually produce it, my works never arrive.
How many more years must I hold on to this charade?
Im not too proud to quietly beg at your parade.
I need two coins to cross the river, it\'s that or fucking styx.
A last ditch effort anyway, before this life is nix.
I hold a lantern with a strong flame, I just want to join the show.
It burns so bright, just a quick glance inside before you go.